The Biker's Dark Obsession

Chapter 4 – Ghosts & Knives

LILY COULDN’T sleep.

The compound hummed with its usual undercurrent of menace—the idle rumble of engines, the distant clink of bottles somewhere behind locked doors, the shuffle of men who moved like the walls themselves were shields. Even with faint holiday lights twinkling along the fence and a soft pine scent drifting from the house, the place pressed down on her like a coffin lid. Ronan’s words still burned in her skull, every syllable a reminder of the chains she thought she’d broken when she left.

So she did what she always did when the fire under her skin grew unbearable. She slipped out.

Bare feet padded over the cold wooden floors until she reached the back corridor. A half-open door spilled dim light into the hall. Not enough to give her pause—until the metallic tang hit her nose.

Blood.

Any sane person would have turned back. Lily never claimed to be sane when curiosity was involved. Or when Jeremiah Veyne was concerned.

Inside, he was bent over the steel sink. Water ran red, swirling down the drain. His knuckles were split, skin raw, smeared across his chest in thick streaks. No shirt. No armor. Just muscle, scars carved into him like scripture.

Her breath hitched, too loud. His head snapped up, predator-fast. Those dark, storm-forged eyes locked on her.

“Couldn’t sleep?” he drawled, voice low, edged with mockery.

She swallowed, steadying herself. “I didn’t realize the Brooks kept their attack dogs off the leash after midnight.”

His mouth curved, humorless. He reached for a towel, dragging it slowly over his jaw, down his chest, deliberate enough to tease. “Careful, princess. Keep calling me Ronan’s dog, and I might decide to show you how sharp my teeth are.”

Heat flared in her belly—unwanted, infuriating. She folded her arms. “Is this supposed to impress me? Bloody hands and a bad attitude?”

“No,” he said simply, stepping toward her. Water dripped from his knuckles. “But it unsettles you. That’s better.”

Her back pressed against the wall. Her pulse jumped, traitorous. He was all coiled violence and smoke, leather lingering even beneath the copper tang of blood. His presence filled the room until the air felt stolen.

“You think you scare me?” she forced her voice steady. “I grew up in this family, Jeremiah. I know monsters.”

He braced one hand against the wall beside her head, leaning close. His breath was warm, laced with something dark—whiskey, anger, maybe both. “Monsters don’t bleed for family. They take. You don’t know half of what I’ve done to keep your name clean.”

The words hit harder than she expected. Guilt tried to creep in, but she shoved it down. “So what? You expect me to thank you? Drop to my knees and worship the loyal hound?”

A dangerous flicker passed through his eyes. He dipped his head closer, lips hovering near hers. “You have no idea how close you are to getting on your knees, Lily.” He read the reactions in her eyes and he liked it. “I could make you bend down your knees and beg me to—”

“Shut up, Jeremiah,” she hissed, breathless. “You have no right to talk me in that way.”

Jeremiah chuckled. “Oh, really? Tell me, princess, how do you want me to talk you? While touching you in the places you didn’t let Robert touch?”

Her pulse scattered. Fury and heat tangled in ways she couldn’t name. She hated him for the arrogance, hated herself more for the way her body arched toward him without permission. His chest was bare, inches from hers, towel forgotten on the floor.

She lifted her chin, forcing words through the haze. “You wouldn’t dare.”

His lips ghosted along her ear. The whisper scraped like gravel. “Test me. Find out.”

She drew in a sharp breath, fists curling at her sides. “You think because Ronan lets you off your leash, you can corner me like this? You’re nothing but his weapon.”

That broke something in him. He slammed his other palm against the wall, caging her fully. “You think I’m here because of Ronan? I bleed because of him, sure. But I fight—” His eyes seared into hers. “—because of you.”

The words stunned her into silence.

He must have seen the flicker in her expression, the c***k in her armor. His mouth curved, slow and cruel. “There it is. You don’t know whether to slap me or kiss me. I can see it all over your face.”

She shoved at him, but it was like pushing stone. He didn’t move. Noses nearly brushing, lips a breath away. The tension was taut, humming with everything unsaid, everything forbidden.

She wanted to scream. She wanted to taste him.

And then—

“Lily!”

Ronan’s voice cracked the air like a whip.

Jeremiah didn’t flinch. His body stayed pressed close, eyes locked on hers, but the smirk faded, replaced by something harder. Possessive. Reluctant.

Only when Ronan’s footsteps thundered closer did Jeremiah peel himself back, slow and deliberate, as if letting her breathe was his choice. He bent, scooped the fallen towel, and dragged it over his knuckles.

Ronan stormed into the doorway, gaze flicking between them. His face darkened. “What the hell is going on here?”

Lily’s heart slammed against her ribs. Jeremiah smirked and tossed the towel onto the counter.

“Ghosts and knives,” he said calmly. “She went wandering. I reminded her this place has sharp edges.”

Ronan’s eyes narrowed, suspicion crackling like static. “Lily—”

She slipped past Jeremiah, spine rigid, fury and shame burning beneath her skin. She couldn’t let Ronan see how rattled she was—not by him, not by Jeremiah. Not even by the impossible thought that, for one fleeting heartbeat, she almost wanted Jeremiah to close the distance between them.